Chapter 9
Hazel reached for her favorite mug just as Marcus shifted left to grab the tea tin. Seven days of forced proximity had created an unconscious choreography between them. She knew he’d reach for the sugar next, he knew she’d need the counter space for her grimoire.
He eyed the grimoire with a wariness that hadn’t been there a week ago.
“Should I be concerned?”
“About what?”
“The last time you opened one of those near me, something exploded.”
“That was a controlled reaction. Mostly.” She flipped the grimoire open with perhaps more force than necessary. “Besides, this one’s just tea recipes. Probably.”
“Probably,” Marcus repeated flatly.
“Almost certainly.”
She settled at the kitchen table with her tea, trying very hard not to notice how his gray t-shirt clung when he stretched for the top shelf. The morning light caught the silver threads in his dark hair, and she wondered when she’d started cataloging these details.
“Thirteen days,” she muttered into her mug, the ceramic warming her hands. Thirteen days until the trial. Until this ended. Until he went back to Boston and she went back to… what? Her shop with its broken window? Her old life that had started feeling too small the moment he’d walked into it?
Marcus set a fresh cup of coffee in front of his usual spot: black, no sugar, in the chipped blue mug he’d claimed on day two.
He’d finally given up complaining about the lack of a proper espresso machine three days ago.
Now he drank Folgers like a normal person who’d been roughing it in a dated safe house.
“Something on your mind?” He glanced at her over his shoulder before returning to whatever he was doing at the counter.
“Just thinking about the trial.” Not entirely a lie. She was thinking about what came after the trial, which was trial-adjacent, which meant…
Sweet goddess, when had she started rationalizing half-truths to herself?
“I’ve been reviewing our testimony prep.” He turned, holding… was that toast? Marcus Hawthorne had made toast. Successfully. Without burning it. “Your delivery yesterday was much improved. You found the balance between natural speech and court requirements.”
The toast was golden brown. Evenly golden brown. Hazel stared at it like he’d performed actual magic. Which, technically, he had. The man who’d incinerated bread for five days straight had achieved toast.
“Did you just…”
“Make adequate toast? Yes.” He set the plate down with the same precision he brought to everything. “I’m capable of learning, despite what my previous attempts suggested.”
She hid her smile behind her mug. “Miracles do happen.”
“Mockery before noon violates safe house protocols.” But his eyes crinkled at the corners, another detail she’d started noticing.
“Pretty sure those protocols don’t exist.” She flipped open her grimoire, needing something to focus on besides the way morning light played across his features. “Also, pretty sure you make up rules when it suits you.”
“I would never.” He leaned against the counter, coffee in hand. “I simply interpret existing guidelines creatively.”
“That’s called making things up.”
“That’s called legal expertise.” He set his coffee on the counter and loosened his shoulders. “Speaking of expertise…”
He dropped into a perfect push-up position on the kitchen floor.
What. Was. Happening.
“Morning routine,” he explained, as if demon lawyers regularly started doing push-ups in tiny kitchens while their witnesses tried to read. “I’ve been neglecting my training.”
Training. He called that chest and those shoulders training. Hazel gripped her mug tighter and fixed her eyes on her grimoire. The words swam meaninglessly as her peripheral vision betrayed her, tracking the smooth rise and fall of his form.
Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine.
Not that she was counting.
His breathing remained perfectly even, because of course it did. Marcus Hawthorne did everything perfectly, including exercises that made his back muscles shift under that thin shirt.
“You’re staring.”
Her eyes snapped up to find him watching her from his plank position, one eyebrow raised and that infuriating smirk playing at his lips.
“I’m reading.” She gestured at her grimoire with theatrical emphasis. “Ancient texts. Very absorbing.”
“Your book is upside down.”
Goddess take him. She flipped the grimoire right-side up with as much dignity as she could muster. “I was testing a new reading technique. Very advanced.”
“I’m sure you were.”
“Whatever.”
He pushed through ten more reps, each one a deliberate performance now that he knew she was watching. The smugness radiating off him was almost visible.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he said, not even breathing hard as he shifted into a plank hold.
“Like what?” The words came out more breathless than intended.
“Like you want to…” He paused, dark eyes finding hers. She forgot to breathe.
“Finish that sentence.” Her voice dropped to something almost like a dare. “I dare you.”
The kitchen suddenly felt impossibly small. He held her gaze for several long seconds.
“Really?” Azrael sat in the doorway. “In the kitchen? Where we eat?”
Marcus dropped out of his plank, rolling smoothly to his feet. Hazel buried her face in her mug, grateful for the ceramic barrier between her and the world’s most judgmental familiar.
“I’ll just…” Marcus grabbed his coffee, his movements suddenly stilted. “Continue this outside.”
He fled —actually fled— to the back door. Hazel waited until it clicked shut before glaring at her familiar.
“Your timing is impeccable as always.”
Azrael jumped onto the table, settling into a loaf position. The look on his face said everything.
“Don’t,” Hazel warned.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I’m a cat. I’m always thinking things.” He closed his eyes, purring softly. “Interesting morning.”
“Shut up, Azrael.”
But he was already pretending to sleep, leaving her alone with thoughts she didn’t want to examine too closely.
The afternoon sun filtered through the trees and threw dancing shadows across the forest floor.
They’d been walking for twenty minutes, far enough from the cabin that Hazel could almost pretend this was just a regular hike.
If she ignored the way Marcus scanned their surroundings with predatory awareness.
“We should head back,” Marcus said, though he made no move to turn around. “The further we go…”
“The more fun we have?” She stepped over a fallen log, breathing in the sharp autumn air. “Come on, counselor. Even prisoners get yard time.”
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“Tell that to the safe house.” She paused. A scent on the wind made her nose wrinkle. “Do you smell that?”
Marcus tensed beside her, and she could practically feel him shifting into threat assessment mode. “Sulfur.”
“And brimstone.” She turned slowly, scanning the trees. “That’s either a really upset hot spring, or…”
The portal ripped open twenty feet away, bleeding red light into the afternoon shadows. The smell intensified: sulfur and brimstone with an undertone of wet dog.
“Get behind me.” Marcus stepped forward, already pulling power into his hands. Golden energy crackled between his fingers, forming geometric patterns.
“I don’t hide behind…”
The first hellhound emerged, and her protest died in her throat.
It was massive. Eight feet at the shoulder, covered in scales that glowed like cooling lava. Its eyes burned with literal flames, and when it opened its mouth, she could see three rows of teeth designed for rending flesh from bones.
“Oh.” Her voice came out smaller than intended. “That’s… big.”
Two more followed, equally massive, equally terrifying. They arranged themselves in a hunting formation, heads low, flames dripping from their jaws to sizzle against the forest floor.
Marcus’s magic grew brighter. “When I say run…”
“Wait.” Hazel grabbed his arm, her attention caught by something off about the scene. “Look at the one on the left.”
“This is not the time for hellhound appreciation…”
“No, look.” She pointed at the smallest of the three, the smallest being relative when it still stood taller than a normal horse. “Its tail.”
Marcus followed her gaze, his defensive spell wavering. “Is it… wagging?”
The hellhound’s tail was indeed making tiny, hopeful movements. More half wag than full wag, like it wasn’t quite sure if it was allowed but couldn’t quite help itself.
“They’re still dogs,” she said, wonder creeping into her voice. “Massive, terrifying dogs from Hell, but…”
“Hazel, no.”
But she was already moving, hand going to her jacket pocket. Her fingers closed around something she’d grabbed on impulse from the cabin’s junk drawer that morning: a single tennis ball, left over from whoever had used this safe house before them.
“Don’t you dare…”
She threw the ball.
It arced through the air in a perfect trajectory, bright green against the autumn foliage. Three massive hellhound heads tracked its movement in perfect synchronization.
The youngest one broke first.
With a sound somewhere between a bark and a volcanic eruption, it bounded after the ball, all pretense of menace forgotten. Its tail, now wagging with enthusiasm, sent small trees flying.
The other two hellhounds watched their packmate with what could only be described as confusion. The largest tilted its massive head, flames dimming as it watched the youngest bound around like a puppy.
The young hellhound caught the ball and immediately incinerated it. Its tail drooped as it stared at the small pile of ash that had been its toy.
“Oh no,” Hazel said. “That’s so sad. Here…” She crouched by the ash pile, purple magic swirling around her fingers. The ash spiraled upward, reforming into a slightly charred but intact tennis ball. “Try being gentler?”
“Are you reconstituting fetch toys for a hellhound?” Marcus’s voice cracked slightly. His defensive magic still crackled around his hands, but he seemed to have forgotten what to do with it.